Diary of a Baltic exile

  • 2004-06-10
I've noticed a distinct increase in tourists in Riga this year. The Old Town is crawling with them.

They are herded around the streets in a well-behaved flock by their group guide, who reels off well-rehearsed stories about this and that brick, or such and such a window, and everyone nods, and cocks their head in the direction of the guide's finger, and everyone tries to catch the moment, which is called Riga, or history, or culture, or something like that, but then their sizable bellies start to rumble, and they all head off to Lido, because their guidebook tells them it's authentic Latvian food, although the pesticides on the potatoes are actually from New Jersey, and the hydrogenated oil is from Poland, but that's beside the point.
Yes, thousands of people are going to come and "do" Riga, which will doubtless add a couple of percent to Latvia's GDP, although it won't really benefit the waiting staff who run around serving them for a pittance, but that's okay, because tips are being liberally left everywhere, in little white saucers, for little white fingers to scoop up, for when a rainy day comes, which hopefully won't be tomorrow, because our tourist investor friends have other plans.
In the evening the city is so pretty, with lovely puddles of warm neon on the cobbled streets, and karaoke-colored clouds drifting over smoky skies, and everyone is so happy that you suddenly get a pain in your side, like a stitch, in nine, saves ten, or something like that, so you go to a beer garden, to drink the beer, or to the opera, because then you can say you went to the opera, when people ask how Riga was, which they will, because people always ask questions, out of politeness or curiosity, and you will say, "Riga was wonderful, just wonderful!"
And so in this scheme of things, everyone is happy, even the buskers, who dutifully perform their role of providing rueful ambiance, and even the beggars, who symbolize the wonders of language, because they beg, which is what beggars do, and so it all made sense, in Riga, it was a beautiful time, and place, so it was, but if only I could remember the name of that wonderful little restaurant in the Old Town, on that lovely little street, the name of which is on the tip of my furry little tongue.